All or Nothing
by Lorata
Summary: Brutus and new-victor Lyme go on a date at the behest of their mentors. It really, really does not go well, but maybe that's okay.


She gives him a flat look, eyes skewering his hand as it holds the door open. "You've gotta be fucking kidding," Lyme snaps. She knocks him out of the way and pushes past, not quite banging their shoulders together but not _not_, either. "C'mon, let's get this over with."

Brutus stares after her as she stalks away down the path. When he doesn't follow, Lyme turns around and shades her eyes with her hand. "Let's go, caveman," she calls. "Not getting any younger here."

Brutus opens his mouth, shuts it, then slaps a hand down over his face and shoves the door closed with his foot. "This is gonna be a great night," he mutters to himself. "Bet she orders the fucking lobster." He glances around to make sure Odin isn't hiding behind a tree, ready to scold him, then blows out a sigh and jogs after her.

It takes longer for Brutus to catch up than he would've thought, not because he's slow but because she's booking it through the village, taking long strides that eat up the path and carry her through at a pace that's furious in more ways than one. She's wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, her hair cropped short but just long enough to be disheveled, and all right Brutus wasn't planning on taking her to a high-end place in the Capitol or anything, but he at least suffered a tie. Would it kill her to put on something that didn't scream how little she cares?

As they're walking, Lyme kicks a pine cone so hard it skitters off the path and explodes against a tree trunk. Brutus sighs. "We don't have to do this." He's mentored once already now; calculating the odds is second nature, and sometimes you know something is over before it even starts.

"Oh yes we do," Lyme says grimly. "Nero's been bugging me for weeks. If he's going to leave me alone, I pretty much need to write him an essay."

"So that's what this is?" Brutus asks. They're walking even with each other, but each time he draws alongside Lyme picks up the pace. It's ridiculous, and the mature part of Brutus knows he should just let it go, but at the same time the competitive twinge digs in his chest. "Research for a giant thesis called 'I Told You So'?"

"Pretty much." Lyme skips a step to the side to send a rock flying across the ground with a heavy blow from her foot. "It'll be easier if you don't take it personally."

"I never take anything personally," Brutus says dryly. "But I don't really see the point in stepping off the platforms, either."

"I believe in not wasting time." She says it in a clipped tone, fingers drumming against her legs as she kicks up the pace - again - and this time Brutus gives up. Challenge or no, he's not going to end up running full-tilt out of the Village. Sometimes taking the high road means you get to the finish line last; Odin keeps telling him that's a good thing, and maybe if he tells himself enough he'll start to believe it. Brutus hangs back so she knows it's deliberate, and Lyme continues almost-stomping down the path to the gate.

("Doesn't she hate men?" Brutus asked Odin the week before, when he'd suggested negotiating with Nero for an evening with just the two of them. "I thought that was her thing."

"She's a fresh victor, my boy, she hates many things. That doesn't necessarily speak to permanence."

"And I'm pretty sure she hates me, specifically," Brutus said, trying not to let his frown turn into a scowl. "She and Emory got on okay, but I don't think she wanted me there."

Odin laid a hand on Brutus' shoulder. "The future is a long time for you now, Brutus, and even longer if you're alone. Don't think of it as a guarantee, or a promise you must make immediately. Think of it as a possible investment for the rest of your life."

Brutus thought of his stupid, naive plans as a new victor himself, meeting and marrying the next female victor from Two and becoming the most successful team in district history. He thought of sixty years ahead of him with no one at his side. "Fine," he said, reluctant, and he scuffed his foot against the edge of the coffee table. "Set it up, I guess.")

Lyme is leaning against the inside of the fence, arms crossed and one foot tapping against the ground when he gets there. "How far is it?" she asks. "Can we walk?"

Brutus blinks. "I mean, we could, but I'd planned to drive. Why?"

"I can't get cleared for a license until after a year out." She shrugs, but her eyes flick to the side. "I don't like relying on other people for a ride home."

That, at least, Brutus understands. "Nah, we can walk. It'll take a little bit, but I'm sure they'll hold the table."

"Nineteen kids between us, they damn well better," Lyme says, and Brutus recognizes the flat, casually disrespectful tone that Emory adopted after her win just because she had the freedom to do it now. Make a joke of it, maybe it won't weigh so heavy.

Brutus isn't going to push it. "Exactly," he says instead, and signals to the guards to open the gate. Lyme will have received her accompanied exit pass after returning from her Tour, but as the senior victor, it's Brutus who has to sign them out. That's still a weird thought.

They walk in silence for a while. Brutus likes his quiet more than the average person - sometimes he and Odin go a whole day without speaking and it's just fine - but silence is like summer; he likes it peaceful, not oppressive. Finally Brutus bites his lip and takes the leap. "You do like guys, right?" Lyme shoots him a flat-eyed look, and Brutus holds up his hands. "I'm serious, all right, I just know that sometimes mentors can get a little - eager. I wanna make sure."

She stops looking at him like she's imagining peeling off his skin and feeding it back to him, so that's something. "Yeah, I do, in theory. Why, do you?"

Brutus wrinkles his nose. "No."

"Shame, thought for a minute we'd have something in common."

If spending eleven years training to win the Hunger Games isn't something in common, Brutus isn't sure what else there could be, but he lets it slide. "I know you ain't had much of a chance to do anything about it, but if you have a type, I'm guessing I'm not it."

"No." Lyme snorts. "Like, no offence or anything, but huge and hulking is not my bag. And neither is that false-gentleman door-holding bullshit, so you can drop that now."

Brutus jumps back like she slapped him. "It's not bullshit! It's called being polite."

Lyme slits her eyes at him. "You saw my Games, right? Then you'll know I don't need your help to open a damn door."

Brutus bites back an annoyed growl. "It's not about you needing help, it's about being nice, that's all. You don't only do things for people if they can't do it for themselves, that's not what a gentleman is. That's - not being an asshole."

"Well, I'll settle for you not being an asshole, then," Lyme says, and Brutus shoves his hands into his pockets so he won't look at his watch and calculate how much longer he has to do this.

Forever is a long time to spend alone, Odin reminded him, and Lyme is the last one on his level. After this, any girl who wins will be too young, too far down the hierarchy for anything but professionalism between them; he may as well try to date up the chain and go for Callista. It's this or nothing. Brutus grits his teeth.

He doesn't bother trying to talk about anything else on the way to the restaurant; much like diving into the sponsor pool and seeing which ones are amenable to negotiations from Careers, Brutus tests the water first. Lyme's expression is faraway, and not in a happy, dreamy way; it's the kind that leaves her jaw tight and her eyes pinched, and Brutus winces and leaves her alone.

She emerges when they get to the restaurant and it's classy interior, if only to snicker at him when Brutus hunches his shoulders defensively. "Aw, that's cute, you thought you were getting a real date," Lyme says, clapping him hard on the shoulder, and as the closest thing to not-resentment that she's tossed him all day, Brutus will take it. "Better roll my sleeves up or they won't let me in dressed like this, huh."

Brutus glares at her - just a little - because really. "I told Nero where were going."

"Yeah, that explains why he tried to get me to wear a shirt with a collar, but oh well." Lyme actually does roll up her sleeve, flicking her wrist to show the dark swirls of ink on her skin to their best advantage. She doesn't look down when she does it, turning up her sleeve with brisk, practiced movements. Brutus has heard the whispers in the Village that Lyme wears long shirts because she doesn't want to look at it, but he isn't going to ask. The fading knife scars around the edge of her tattoo tell him more than anything she could say out loud.

There's no trouble at the door, but given that Odin called ahead and asked that everyone be professional and courteous and that if they want to be in business tomorrow there be no cameras anywhere on the premises, Brutus isn't that surprised. He does have to explain himself when the wait staff leads them to a secluded table in the back, because Lyme's eyebrows skyrocket right off her face. "I thought you'd want privacy," he grunts. "Fewer people staring, or whatever."

At least then she actually makes an invisible tick-mark in the air, which is something. "Okay, I'll give you one point for that. If you're keeping score, that's about four million, nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine points away from getting anywhere near my pants."

"It's not a fucking game," Brutus says, appalled even though she has to be baiting him, and she confirms it with a wolf's smile.

Of course, Brutus loses all ground gained when he automatically reaches around her back to pull the chair out for her and Lyme whirls on him. At first he thinks she's just taking offence again, but then she sticks out her arm in a way that means she's used to having a knife there. "Easy," Brutus says, not flinching, and pretends not to notice her flash of embarrassment and confusion when she lets her hand fall. Emory did the same, if not worse, back when she got out. Brutus still has a scar on his bicep from the time he tried to wake her from a nightmare. "Just another gentleman bullshit reflex, don't mind me."

It shakes Lyme enough that she sits without complaining, and Brutus says nothing and hands her the menu. She can hate him or think he's ridiculous, but he's not going to make her shit for victor-reflexes. After a while, Lyme looks at him over the top of the folded card. "I'm guessing you planned on paying for this."

Brutus drums his fingers on the tabletop. "It's traditional."

"Yeah, I thought so." Lyme flags over the waiter, then composes herself in a perfect, innocent smile that from a Career means someone's guts will be on the ground soon. "I'll have the Ten-Four," she says, and that's the steak and lobster and he called it, didn't he. She looks at Brutus. "If that's not too expensive, _honey_."

Brutus could live another hundred years and never hear Lyme call him 'honey' in a voice like a fillet knife. It would still be too soon. "Whatever you want, _sweetheart_," he shoots back, because two can play at this fucking game now can't they.

"And whatever whiskey will make him choke," Lyme says, snapping the menu shut. The waiter gives them a small smile, takes Brutus' order - just a bloody steak, nothing fruity, no weird bubbles or foam or tiny diced vegetables like in the Capitol - and leaves them to it.

"Whiskey," Brutus says, and he won't choke at the price of alcohol, thanks, because what else is he going to spend his money on when he's not allowed to sponsor tributes. "Is that really your thing?"

Lyme shrugs. "They kept shoving all this fruity stuff on me during my Tour, ice wins and all that, and Nero likes beer but it smells like ass." Brutus very carefully does not take offence. "Bourbon was the only thing that tasted good to me, so why not. Plus it's less cliche than you dudes and all your locally-brewed Two micro-whatevers."

That, at least, is safer territory. Brutus shrugs. "They're all small businesses. I like to support them, that's all. No reason why my money shouldn't stay in Two as much as possible."

Lyme picks up her water, then sets it back down. "So that thing you do for the cameras, the whole 'I was carved whole from the rocks of District Two', that's not an act then."

Brutus prickles. "Not everything's an image," he mutters, and he downs his water in one gulp and cracks an ice cube in his teeth.

It makes no sense. Brutus goes on dates - fake ones in the Capitol, sure, courting sponsors and information, but real ones too in Career-town because he can't just take a girl home without at least buying dinner - and he does fine. He manages to keep conversation going with women who've never known bigger hardship than breaking a fingernail or ripping their favourite skirt; he's courted ex-Career girls without ever making them feel bad for only making it to fifteen. He and Lyme, theoretically, should have more to talk about, since their entire lives up to eighteen were based on the same thing.

Brutus doesn't believe in fate, or destiny, or anything but hard work. He's always told himself that if you just keep trying, you can achieve anything; how else would a boy from the quarries grow up to win the Hunger Games anyway? But he looks across the table at Lyme, his mind going blank, and maybe there are some games you just can't win no matter how hard you play.

"Okay, look, let's get the jump on this list," Lyme says. Brutus wants to protest but he can't think of anything better, either. She picks up a napkin from the centre of the table and holds out her hand for a pen, snapping her thumb and forefinger together. (Brutus sighs, but fishes one out of his pocket and hands it to her.) "Number one, I don't go for the giant caveman types. No offence, but it's really not my thing." She looks up at him and points the pen at his face. "And don't start with me about how that's shallow or whatever, I will bet you my entire stipend that I'm not yours, either. Guy like you, I'm betting you like 'em pretty."

Brutus folds his arms. "I like 'em Two," he retorts, but Lyme gives him a look. "Yeah, all right, so I wouldn't normally be looking at you either, happy?"

"Just saying. If I'm not into you and you're not into me, this is going to go nowhere." Lyme spins the pen around in her fingers and goes back to writing. "I'm also betting you wouldn't let me fuck you."

Brutus nearly knocks his glass off the table, rearing back in horror. "Say what?"

"Aw, did you think only guys can fuck girls?" Lyme asks, teasing, but there's something nasty underneath her voice that goes with the hard light in her eyes. There's a 'back off' signal above her head blinking every bit as hard as any Arena trauma, and Brutus is not qualified to find out what it is. "Yeah, that's another rule. No guy is going to stick his dick in me, ever."

He rolls the ice around in his glass, willing it to melt faster because his mouth is stone dry. "Well, I'm sure there will be people into that," he says, trying for neutral support. People will do all kinds of crazy things nowadays.

"Oh, there will," Lyme says in a tone that makes Brutus want to run for the door. "But this is good, see? Mutual 'nope'. Means Nero won't bug me so much to be reasonable if it's you too."

Brutus begs the food to get there faster. He ordered his steak rare, how much time can that possibly take?

She glances up after a while of scribbling, eyes narrowed in thought. "Also, you look like you want kids."

Brutus jerks back. "Am I on trial here? Look, write about how much you don't want to fuck me or whatever, but there's a line."

Lyme puts the pen down. "Okay, okay, sorry. You just look like the kind of guy who wants kids -" Brutus says nothing, lapsing into stony silence - "and that's a never for me, a big serious never ever. And that's not like the type of guy I think is hot or the kind of sex I want to have. If you want kids and I don't, it's shitty from the start for me to say anything but no."

Brutus' breath aches in his chest. This is not what he wanted for his evening. He'd rather go home and take a sword to the leg. He presses his thumb and forefinger to the arch of his eyebrows, elbow resting on the table, and tries for something - anything - to say but everything twists itself ugly and mocking inside him. "Pretty sure it's a moot point whether I do or not," Brutus says at last, grinding his teeth so hard a spike of pain shoots up his jaw.

"Fuck," Lyme mutters, and Brutus doesn't look up because he doesn't trust himself but he thinks that's genuine regret in her tone. "Look, you know how weird this is, right? I know half the Village was hoping I'd be the perfect wife for you because you've been waiting so long or whatever, but I'm not, okay?"

"Yeah, I got it," Brutus grits out, and where is the Games-damned food.

Lyme sighs. "All I mean is, I know this is worse for you than me. I don't want anybody, ever, no matter how much Nero harps on me about how when I'm old I'll be sad I don't have a husband to change my diaper or whatever. I'm glad I'm not what you want because it means I won't have to put up with you chasing me." She runs a hand through her hair, tugging at the short strands. "But I went into this hoping it would fail, and you probably didn't, so. For what it's worth, that sucks, and I'm sorry."

Brutus drags both hands down his face, and there is no way to salvage this evening, is there. She'll never understand what it's like to watch the Games and wonder if this will be his future wife before seeing her cut down in a spray of blood. She won't take the female tribute three years in like Brutus did, even though that meant she'd be off-limits to Brutus as a future partner, because taking the boy would've either meant trying to kill her or hoping his tribute died so he could have a shot at marriage.

"Well, at least you know I won't be chasing you," Brutus says, with what he hopes is the proper amount of levity. "So maybe you can stop trying to chop my legs off every time I open my mouth."

Lyme gives him a long, considering stare, then actually grins a little. "Yeah, you've got a point. We should have a toast to a long, happy life of never wanting to fuck each other - at least, if they'd actually bring the drinks." She says that last bit with a raised voice, and Brutus would feel worse except he'd almost go back into the Arena for a beer right now.

Funny enough, it's easier to talk after that. Halfway through the meal, Lyme spears a small potato and waves it at him. "You know they're full of shit, right? Nero, Odin, and yeah, you. All this freaking out over making sure you have somebody to sleep in the same bed. We're in the Village, aren't we? Who cares if you're not married, you're surrounded by people who understand you."

It's not about that, not at all. Lyme is so far off the mark the trainers wouldn't even make her run laps, they'd pull her aside and ask her what the hell was wrong, but there's no point in arguing. Because no, it's not the same, because what Brutus wants is the whole thing, and he can't get that from his mentor or his fellow victors or even a friend. Because maybe if Brutus had one person he could try to make happy every day - a person where his job is make her happy, where making her smile is worth more than money or sponsorship agreements - then what he does the rest of the year might not be so hard. He wants someone who can make him feel a little less like he's only pretending to be human, who could dig inside him and find the good man that he's trying so desperately to be after a decade of burying him away.

But Lyme's right about one thing: ain't her fault that it can't be her.

"So does that mean you'll change my diaper for me when we're old?" Brutus asks, baring his teeth at Lyme instead. "Since we're such good _friends_ now."

She looks at him, startled, then laughs without an edge underneath it for the first time that evening. "You first," Lyme shoots back. "But I bet you'll shit yourself more than me."

"You know, it's a shame you want to stay single, because you're a real peach," Brutus drawls, and Lyme kicks him hard under the table.


End file.
